A
few weeks back I invited readers to share their most horrifying
true stories of desperate and/or depressing holiday sex. As
promised, the author of the best horrifying true story of
holiday sex—as determined by me—wins a $75 Toys in Babeland
gift certificate. See if you can spot the winner before you
get to the end of the column. . . .

When I was in eighth grade, my cousin Donna from Wisconsin
came for Christmas. She and I were the same age and she had
sprouted some major hooters. After dinner, with our extended
family sacked out on couches, I found myself alone in a bedroom
with Donna. Without saying anything, I started pawing at her
tits. My hands were shaking like crazy, fearing rejection,
but she didn’t mind. I pulled her tits out of the top of her
dress and she got on her knees, undid my zipper, and took
my dick in her hands. I shot my very first load all over Donna’s
tits. Then someone said, “My Lord!” It was my very uptight
aunt, Donna’s mother, standing in the door. Horrified, I mopped
up Donna’s breasts with my shirt while her mother stood there
watching.

—Jacked
By Cousin

I
moved away from my friends and family last year to Seattle.
As I left work on Christmas Eve, the homeless people were
having a trash-can-fire, plastic-bottle-liquor ho-down on
University Avenue. I figured what the hell, and decided to
join in. I wound up sharing a bottle of cheap vodka with one
particularly attractive homeless girl. My judgment eroded,
and I invited her back to my apartment. Before I could protest,
she invited two of her friends to join us. My Christmas Eves
until this point in my life were Norman Rockwell-ian clichés.
This particular year, I had an all-night drunken orgy with
three homeless girls. We fucked our brains out, baked cookies
naked, and fucked some more. When I woke up in the early afternoon,
the girls were gone. So were my wallet, most of my food, my
toiletries, and my CDs.

—Finally
I Love The Holidays

Last
Hanukkah I decided to tell my mother I was a lesbian. Around
the table was my mother, her husband Phil, and a couple who
my mother and stepdad are friendly with, Don and Mary. “I
have something I want to share with all of you,” I said. “I’m
gay.” My mother gave me a supportive look before turning the
attention to herself. “Well,” she said, “I’m really happy
you told me that because now I feel comfortable exposing a
part of my life to you. When Phil and I first started dating,
we found that we both enjoyed nudist resorts. We met a lot
of people with whom we’re still friends. Don and Mary are
two of the people we met there. We’ve been together with
them for three years now.” Later that evening I was out on
the porch having a cigarette. Don came out on the porch. “So
you’re gay,” he said. “Would you be interested in getting
together with us some time?” I left before my mother
brought out the carrot cake.

—Freaked
Out Then, Freaked Out Still

Last
year, my husband’s folks were visiting us in New York for
Christmas. My husband decided to treat me to something I’d
always wanted: A session with a female dominatrix. I’m not
a lesbian, but it had always been a fantasy of mine to be
dominated by a woman, tied up, and, you know, other stuff.
So my husband made an appointment for me early in the day
on Christmas Eve, thinking it would relieve the holiday tension—and
the tension of having his parents around. So I go, and halfway
through a rather lame, not-living-up-to-my-fantasy domination
session, the woman I’m “serving” starts to cry. She’s all
alone for the holidays, and she’s depressed. Wanting to reach
out to a person in need, I invited her to come to our house
for dinner. Big mistake. When I introduced her to my in-laws
as “a friend from work,” she got bent out of shape. She’s
not ashamed of who she is or what she does, she announced,
and then she told my husband’s parents just exactly when we
met (that very day) and how (kinky sex for money). She lectured
me about being ashamed of my masochistic and homoerotic desires
(in front of my in-laws!), then stormed out of our apartment.
My in-laws think I’m the whore of Babylon now.

—Could’ve
Died

My
ex-girlfriend was in town from college and called to ask if
we could meet up for a beer. Eventually the Coronas became
tequilas. After we staggered out to my freezing car, she pulled
my face down to her crotch. After I had gone down on her for
five minutes, she lifted my head up and, sobbing, told me
that she couldn’t do this, that she had a boyfriend that she
loved. She begged me to take her to a payphone so she could
call him and apologize. I drove around for a while, hoping
that she would calm down and not make the call. But
when we drove past a gas station, she demanded that I stop.
After she was on the phone for a few minutes, she motioned
for me to get out of the car. “He wants to talk to you,” she
sobbed. Here’s how our conversation went:

“Hello?”
I said.

“So,
what happened there tonight?” he said.

“What’d
she tell you happened?

“I
want to hear it from you.”

“Went
to a bar. Ate your girlfriend out. She started crying. That’s
about it.”

“That’s
what she told me. Put her back on.”

I handed the phone back to my ex, got back in the car, turned
the music up and waited for her to return so I could drive
her back home.

—Prefers
To Give Than To Receive

You
want a depressing/horrifying holiday sex story? This girl
has never had sex or anything remotely like it on or near
any holidays. For everyone out there who thinks they have
it bad because the sex they had during the holidays was horrifying,
I say this: At least someone was looking forward to having
sex with you.

—Sexless
Holidays

No
holiday sex? Good or bad? Ever? That’s horrifying! If anyone
needs a $75 gift certificate to Toys in Babeland, it’s Sexless
Holiday, so . . . you win, SH! Your gift certificate is in
the mail, and I recommend you blow your dough on a Hitachi
Magic Wand. A Magic Wand isn’t a lover, of course, but look
at it this way: a vibrator won’t tell your in-laws what you’ve
been doing with it, it won’t break down sobbing, and it won’t
come all over your cousin’s tits. Enjoy.